night than it had the night before.
When the phone kept ringing its persistent double brrrr he couldn’t think of any excuses to ignore it. He reached out his arm and lifted the receiver.
“This is your wakeup call. It’s six a.m.”
Drake growled something back at the too-pleasant voice and dropped the receiver on the cradle. He stretched, trying to get a reading on his back. The pain was still there when he moved. What were they doing today? Oh yes, he and Melody were quitting Running California and going home. They had talked about spending a couple of days together first-on holiday, as she phrased it, but nothing had been settled.
Fred had not only refused to accept their resignations, he had made them talk to the reporter just as if they were still in the race. The young man was a sports reporter by trade and had wanted to talk about the athletic aspects of the race. Drake had played down his injuries while they discussed how one prepared for and maintained conditioning during ultra-marathoning, a term used by the reporter.
It would be fun to be alone with Melody for a few days. Just like old times, hopefully. Drake rolled onto his side, sat up, and headed for the shower.
“Mr. Drake?”
Drake turned and saw the middle-aged woman at the reception desk. Her voice sounded like the voice on the phone. He was meeting Melody here. They were going to the cafe next door to eat a real breakfast. The continental breakfast served by the motel wouldn’t sustain them.
“I have an envelope for you.”
“For me?”
“You are Mr. Drake, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
How did she know? It wasn’t difficult. He was the only guest at the motel with a bandage on his face. Somebody must have told her that. He took the proffered envelope, thanked her, and sat down at one of the small tables in the lobby area where a few early rising guests were drinking coffee and eating sweet rolls.
It was a white business-size envelope with “Oliver Drake” typed on the outside. It had been sealed but only at one spot in the center. Drake tore the envelope open and pulled out a sheet of standard typewriter paper folded neatly in thirds. He unfolded the paper and saw a typewritten note. As he quickly read the note, he got a sick feeling in his stomach. The English was broken and there were spelling errors, but the meaning was clear.
To: Oliver Drake
From: The Syndicate
You not know us but that no matter. We know you. We have great interest in Running California race. We see it as chance to make much money. Many people betting on race. People betting that you and Melody Jefferson not finish race. We bet that you finish race get exelent odds. But then you have acident. We think we know who caused acident but we not able to get out of bet. So you have to stay in race. We know where Melody mom lives in Rotherfield England. As long as you too stay in race she ok. If you quit race she in big trouble. Do you understand? Do not show letter to any one.
Shit. Drake almost said it out loud. He read the note a second time, more slowly. The meaning didn’t change.
“Letter from home?”
Melody placed a hand on his shoulder and started to look over it. Drake’s first inclination was to hide the paper, but he knew she had to see it. He reluctantly handed it to her.
“Brace yourself. It’s not good news. I’ll be right back.”
While Melody read the note, Drake went to the reception desk. He fidgeted impatiently while the clerk took care of a man who was checking out. He finally got her attention.
“The envelope you gave me? Who gave it to you?”
“It was here when I came in at five. I think it came in on Peter’s shift.”
“Where’s Peter?”
“He left at six.”
“So he’s home now?”
“Probably. He sleeps during the day.”
“I need to talk to him. Can you ring him for me?”
The clerk looked dubious. “He might be asleep.”
“He left less than an hour ago. He’s probably eating breakfast or something. Please. This is very important.”
People were lining up at the counter to check out. The clerk apparently decided it was faster to give in than to argue. She checked a list and dialed a number. After a pause she said, “Peter? Hang on. Mr. Drake wants to speak to you.”
She handed the receiver across the counter to Drake. He put it to his ear. “Hello, Peter?”
“Yes.”
“This is Oliver Drake. You were given an envelope to give me?”
“Oh…right.”
“What time was that?”
“Let’s see. Johnny Carson had ended. I was doing some paperwork. It must have been about midnight.”
“Can you describe the person who gave it to you?”
“Not very well. He-or maybe she-I’m not even sure which, was wearing a sweatshirt with a hood and dark glasses. Jeans, tennies. Not too tall, slim build. I didn’t see any hair, because it was covered by the hood. The face was smooth-young looking.”
“Did he-or she-speak to you?”
“No. He came running into the motel like he was trying to catch a bus, handed the envelope to me, and ran out again without saying a word.”
“Did you see a car or anything?”
“No. He disappeared. I was so surprised that I followed him to the door, but by the time I got outside, he was out of sight.”
“You said the face was smooth and young looking. Like that of a young man or woman?”
“Yeah, either one.”
“You didn’t see any lipstick or anything?”
“Nope. I’m not saying she wasn’t wearing lipstick. I didn’t get a good look at the face. It happened so fast.”
“Did you notice anything else about the person?”
“He sure could run fast. That’s about it.”
“Okay, Peter. Thanks for your help. If you think of anything more, could you call…Giganticorp-you must have their corporate number-and leave a message for Oliver Drake of Running California? Leave a number where you can be reached in the evening, and I’ll call you back.”
“After ten I’m usually at the motel. I work the night shift.”
Drake said good-bye and hung up. He turned and found Melody at his elbow. He had been so absorbed in the call that he hadn’t seen her approach. Her face looked ashen under her tan. They needed to talk, but not here with people milling around, including some of the runners.
“Let’s go next door to the cafe.”
He took her arm and guided her out of the motel. A few minutes later they were seated at a booth that promised some privacy as long as they kept their voices low. He ordered orange juice, scrambled eggs, and toast for Melody-she appeared to be in shock-and coffee and a bigger breakfast, including bacon and potatoes, for himself.
Melody, who had been clutching the piece of paper, laid it on the table. “Do you think this is a prank?”
“If so, the prankster has a lot of information about us, including where your mother lives. I think we have to treat it as real. The first thing we can do is stay in the run. By carrying out the instructions, we hopefully protect
